The Dragon's Curse

by Bethany Wiggins

  “This is me being careful.” I gently push Golmarr aside. The moment my eyes meet Yassim’s, she starts running, fast as lightning, across the deck and brings her elbow into my ribs. As it contacts my bruised bones, I shift to the side and slip one arm beneath her armpit, reach my other arm over her shoulder and grab her tunic, and then lift her off the ground and swing her through the air, slamming her onto the deck like she’s an uprooted tree—just like I am an ancient Trevonan soldier. I pounce on her, landing my weight on one of my knees, right in the middle of her stomach. The air is forced from her lungs, and her eyes bulge. Before she has time to push me off, I ball my hand into a fist, ancient Trevonan style, and slam it against her jaw with all my strength.

  Yassim’s head snaps to the side. When she looks at me again, eyes stunned, I ram my fist into her nose. She jerks her knee up and into my side and knocks me onto the deck. Her feet drum against my back and force me flat onto my stomach. Two small hands grab my hair and slam my face into the ship’s deck, and then they are cinched around my throat.

  For a split second, the deck seems to tilt and my ears start ringing, but despite my woozy brain, my body reacts with hardly any conscious effort on my part. I ram my elbow backward and feel a satisfying crunch. Yassim leaps off my back, but I dive for her, catching a handful of her tunic in my hands. With a grunt of effort, I swing her off her feet again, slamming her down onto her stomach. She yelps and tries to crawl away, but I press my knee between her shoulder blades and pin her wrists up by her head. Grinding my knee against her spine, I lean close and say, “Unless you can break my hold, your ship is mine.”

  She snarls and tries to force her wrists from my hands, but I am stronger than she is. “You haven’t won yet,” she growls, trying to buck me off. “I am not defeated!”

  “Then get up and fight me.” She writhes and lurches, but cannot break free. I look at Golmarr. “Does this count as winning?” I ask, and taste blood.

  Golmarr nods. “If she can’t get up, yes, it counts as winning…unless she wants you to strangle her to prove your point.”

  “Yield your ship to me, Princess Yassim,” I say.

  She pitches, testing my hold again, but doesn’t break free.

  “I have beaten you. I have won. Yield your ship.” My voice is so quiet and commanding; my mother would be proud.

  She struggles again, and my sweaty hand loses its grasp on one of her slim wrists. Instead of ramming her elbow into my ribs, the princess wraps her fingers around the fine gold chain on her neck and snaps it. Everything seems to slow when I see the tip of a gold needle sticking out from Yassim’s closed fist. Golmarr yells a warning and dives for me at the exact moment Yassim plunges the needle into my thigh. At first I feel nothing. A heartbeat later, a rush of heat expands outward from the needle.

  Yassim, still pinned beneath me, lifts her foot to kick me in the back of the head, but Golmarr knocks her foot away. I take a handful of her hair, lift her head, and slam her face into the deck. Her eyelids flutter and her body softens the slightest bit beneath mine.

  “Just yield your ship so I don’t have to ruin your pretty face!” I growl, slamming her face into the deck again. My words are slurred, and my right thigh feels like it is on fire. “I don’t want to hurt you anymore! I just need your bloody ship!”

  “I do not yield,” Yassim hisses. A slow smile curls her bleeding lips upward. “You will be dead before the sun sets, and the ship will still be mine. In Ilaad, that means I win.”

  The boat seems to tip beneath us, and my hold on her hair weakens as my hand begins to tremble. “Throw all her crew but the captain overboard and set sail,” I say, my words slow and garbled. My tongue is too heavy and feels coated with slime. I try to swallow the slime, but it is so thick it will not go down my throat.

  “What?” Yassim shrieks, fighting against my hold with renewed strength. “You have no right to throw my men into the sea!” I wobble atop her, but do not let go.

  “And you had no right to poison me,” I whisper, grinding my knee harder against her back. “I won your ship fairly. I decide what to do with the crew. Based on the way you fight, I do not trust you or your men.” I look at Golmarr and hope he can understand my slurred words. “Throw them over.”

  The Ilaadi sailors draw their weapons and eye Golmarr and his brothers warily. They will not leave the ship without a fight.

  “If you lift your weapons against my men, your princess dies right now,” I warn. With an unsteady hand, I slide the needle out of my thigh—it is barely as long as my pinkie finger, and hollow inside—and hold it to Yassim’s neck, just below her ear. “There has to be at least a trace of poison still left in this!” Yassim goes instantly still. A single droplet of my blood falls from the needle and splatters against her skin, sliding down her neck before dripping onto the deck. “Drop your weapons now or she dies.” Weapons clang against wood. “Jump over the side,” I instruct, my voice so slurred my words are barely clear.

  Six Ilaadi sailors walk to the railing, climb atop it, and jump, splashing into the icy ocean.

  Taking a deep, trembling breath, I fling the gold needle into the water and fall to my side, curling my knees to my chest like a baby. Golmarr is atop the princess before she can move, pressing her face so hard against the deck she whimpers.

  “What kind of poison was in your needle?” he asks.

  “Blackshade,” she says, the word slurring out of her smooshed mouth. Ornald crouches beside Golmarr and roughly ties the princess’s wrists behind her back. Enzio kneels at my side, slipping his hands beneath my knees and shoulders, lifting me.

  I swallow against the thickness of my tongue and my swelling throat. The ship’s mast ripples and bends like a snake, twisting against the dull blue sky, and above it, high in the air, I see the two-headed dragon. I blink hard and look again, but find myself staring into empty white eyes.

  Nayadi’s hand closes tight around my jaw. “Soul to soul, I forge this bond,” she whispers, “and bind my spirit to yours.” Darkness gathers around her like a living, swirling cloud, until it blocks the entire sky. “Soul to soul, I forge this bond and bind my spirit to yours,” she whispers again, faster this time. I open my mouth to tell her I saw the dragon, but no sound comes out. My muscles give up the ability to move, my lungs refuse to expand, and silence swells inside my ears. Beneath my ribs, my heart wrenches to a painful stop…and then it stays that way: silent, still. Blackness devours the ship and crawls around the edges of Nayadi’s grinning face as she keeps speaking words I can no longer hear. The shadows pull at me, and my bones feel as if they are being torn from my flesh, and still my heart is not beating. I scream and clench every muscle in my body, trying to hold it together when it feels like it is being ripped apart. And then the darkness hides the world from my eyes and I simply stop existing.

  I am wrapped in a cocoon of fabric, my arms and legs sweat-plastered against my body. The world is moving all around me, close and stifling, and I cannot help but wonder what I am going to be when I break free of my wrapping—a girl, or a dragon? The thought brings to mind a two-headed dragon flying high above a ship’s mast. I need to warn Golmarr.

  I blink at the darkness and start scratching against the cocoon, clawing it away from my face. I open my mouth to cry out, and damp hair fills it. Thrusting my arms up, they break through taut fabric, and a wave of cool, humid air breathes against my skin. I grip the sleek edges of it and pull myself to sitting, and the world swings violently from side to side.

  A perfect square in the ceiling is letting in light, illuminating a small, cramped room. Beside me are three empty hammocks, and I am swinging in the fourth. The fabric is as smooth as the luxurious silk imported to Faodara from the desert. Rubbing the fabric between my thumb and finger, I realize it is silk.

  I swing my legs carefully over the side and hop down onto a cool floor, stumbling as my knees nearly give out. Pain
shoots up my left leg and I hold the silk hammock to keep from falling. Pushing tangled hair from my face, I hobble on stiff, clumsy legs toward the square of light. Below it is a ladder, so I climb. When my head and shoulders pass from the darkness into the light, I wince and turn my face away from a blinding blue sky with the sun perched in its center.

  The slap of water on wood and the snap of a sail catching the wind fill the air. A moment later, men’s voices join the sounds. A pair of strong hands loop under my armpits and hoist me the rest of the way up the ladder into the bright, stifling sunlight.

  “How do you feel?” a familiar voice asks. I turn toward the sound and am engulfed by a warm embrace.

  “Golmarr,” I breathe, without opening my eyes. I lean my head against his chest, savoring the sense of belonging I feel when I am with him. “I saw the two-headed dragon.”

  “It is following us, but we have managed to stay ahead of it.” His arms tighten around me, and I relax against his body. “Are you feeling all right?”

  For a moment, I ponder his question. “My head feels stuffed with cotton,” I say, and startle at my hoarse voice. “I can’t open my eyes, either. It’s too bright out here. Can you help me back down the ladder?”

  Golmarr laughs, the deep rumble echoing through his chest and directly into my ear. “In a minute. Let me look at your leg in the sunlight.” His arms fall away, and I sway as I catch my balance. Crouching at my feet, Golmarr touches my knee, his hands warm and dry against my skin. Slowly, his hands move up my leg, fingers pressing and probing. Cracking one eye open, I peer down. I am wearing my brown Trevonan tunic and…nothing else. Golmarr is kneeling at my feet, focused on my thigh. My bare thigh.

  Both my eyes pop open, and I try to step away, but he wraps his hands around my leg and anchors me in place. With one eyebrow raised, he looks up. “Why are you trying to pull away? Are you scared of the touch of a barbarian?”

  All the grogginess leaves my brain. “No, I’m not afraid of your touch, but I’m not dressed!”

  “Your tunic covers you well enough. This is where Princess Yassim stabbed you with a poisoned needle. I am making sure it is healing,” Golmarr explains, and though he is not smiling, there is mischief radiating from his voice. “And I’m getting a close-up view of your beautiful legs,” he murmurs.

  “Oh,” I say breathlessly, and that makes him smile. I swallow as he moves his hands higher, lifting the hem of my tunic. “Is that really necessary?” I whisper. Instead of answering, he frowns and leans closer, pressing against my skin with the tip of his thumb.

  “Ouch!” I gasp, and force myself not to yank away as I look at his hands on my skin. On the outside of my left thigh is a perfectly round bruise with a small black scab in its center. Golmarr presses on the discolored skin, and a drip of yellow pus oozes around the scab.

  “How does it look?” a deep voice asks from behind. I cringe and turn. Enzio, Ornald, and Yerengul are standing behind me, worry plain on all three faces, waiting for Golmarr’s answer. Gripping the hem of my tunic, I tug it as low as I can, which is no farther than halfway down my thighs. It is absolutely unheard-of for a Faodarian princess to show her legs!

  When Golmarr stands, I turn toward the ladder leading to the hammock room, but he places his hand against the small of my back, holding me at his side. “It looks a lot better. There is almost no pus coming out.”

  Enzio sighs and runs his hand down his weary face. “That’s good news.”

  Yerengul laughs. “Too bad for you, brother.” His gaze shifts to my legs. “I guess you won’t have the excuse of a wound to put your hands on her bare skin every hour.”

  Golmarr shoves his brother’s shoulder hard. “Be more respectful,” he warns, “or I’m going to swab the deck with your face.”

  My father holds a bundle out to me. It is my cloak, stiff from dried salt water. I take it and wrap it around my waist, covering my legs. “Thank you. Where are my clothes?”

  “Belowdecks, in the sleeping quarters with the hammocks,” he says. “All of our saddlebags are in one corner, so rifle through them and see what you can find to wear.”

  “What about the leggings I wore onto the ship?”

  Golmarr shakes his head. “They’re gone. They were ruined—completely soaked with blood.”

  I try to remember any deep wounds I got while fighting Yassim. There were none. “One little needle puncture completely soaked them with blood?”

  Golmarr’s jaw stiffens. “Apparently the Ilaadi put an anticoagulant in their poisons to help them spread faster. Every nick and scratch you got bled a lot.” He points at my chest. I look down and notice the bloodstains on my tunic.

  I step toward the hatch, but Golmarr tugs on my tunic, bringing me back to his side. “Do you need any help getting dressed?”

  I laugh. “I can get dressed on my own, thank you very much.”

  Golmarr smiles, but his cheeks slowly turn scarlet. His brother starts laughing, and Ornald gives him a stern look. Golmarr groans. “I didn’t mean it that way. Would you like me to help you find some clean clothes?” He points to Enzio and Ornald. “Or would you like a member of your family to help you?”

  I shake my head. “No. I can manage on my own.”

  A few minutes later, dressed in a pair of grass green leggings and a yellow tunic I found in my saddlebag, I climb the ladder back to the deck, armed with a comb and leather string. Once my eyes readjust to the bright light, I look around. Above, the sky is a clear, fathomless turquoise staring down at the dark blue sea. Golmarr, Jessen, and Yerengul are at the ship’s helm talking with the Ilaadi captain. Enzio and Ornald are practicing on deck with their short swords and talking about the best Satari celebrations they’ve ever been to. “I miss the Glass Forest and our people,” my father says.

  “Why did you leave?” Enzio asks.

  My father sheathes his sword and pulls a piece of white cloth from his pocket, dabbing at the sweat on his forehead.

  I walk to his side and start combing my tangled hair while trying to get a closer look at the cloth. It is not simply cloth, but a finely made handkerchief. “Why did you leave?” I ask.

  He looks at me with eyes nearly the same shade of green as mine. “Melchior the wizard gave me a bag of gold and told me if I sought my fortune with Faodarian royalty, I would find a type of love that was not waiting for me with the Black Blades.” He holds the handkerchief up for me to see. It is the one embroidered with the Faodarian griffin and the letter F and stained with my blood.

  “That is not what a soldier typically carries,” I say. “Was that my mother’s?”

  He nods and runs a finger over the faded embroidery. “Yes, this belonged to your mother. She gave it to me the day her husband found out that we had fallen in love. That was the last time we spoke as equals.” He pulls his lips tight against his teeth, whether from anger or sorrow, I cannot say.

  “Was I born yet?”

  “No. You were barely making the queen’s belly swell.”

  “And was Melchior right?” Enzio asks. “Did you love the queen of Faodara?”

  “I did love the queen. Very much.” He laughs and looks at the ship beneath his feet. “Unfortunately Melchior didn’t mention that it would only last a few months.”

  I put my hand on his arm. “I am sorry,” I say.

  My father looks at me, his eyes thoughtful, and covers my hand with his. “What I had with the queen was fleeting and wrong, and left both of us very unhappy. But you, daughter, whether you knew I was your father or not, have given me sixteen years of a truer love than I ever had with Felicitia. I believe that is the love Melchior was referring to—the love a father has for his daughter. You bring me joy, Sorrow, and now that you know I am your father, and Lord Damar cannot punish either one of us because of that, I am excited to discover what a life with you in it is like.” He gives my hand a firm sq
ueeze and then removes it from his arm. “I believe Golmarr is eager for a moment of your time. He has nearly worn a path in the ship’s deck with his worried pacing.”

  I turn and find Golmarr leaning against the ship’s railing, ankles crossed, watching me. “Nice clothes,” he says with a laugh. “Very…conspicuous. The two-headed dragon is going to see you from miles away.”

  I shrug and keep brushing my hair. “I believe Treyose went through his closet and found the clothes he abhors, and gladly passed them on to me. I look like an overgrown daffodil.”

  Grinning like a pirate, Golmarr slowly saunters to my side and lets his gaze wander over my clothing. “Aside from looking like an overgrown flower, you look all woman to me.”

  I feel like I went to sleep, and when I woke up the old Golmarr was back—the teasing Antharian rogue. He seems like Golmarr from before he inherited the glass dragon’s hatred and tried to kill me. “Why are you acting like this?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like you used to act—flirting, touching me, staring at me like you’re going to devour me with your eyes.”

  His eyebrows rise the slightest bit and the teasing leaves his eyes. “Do you want me to stop?”